Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine(78)

Nodding, she interrupted me, thankfully stopping me from going too far.

“There are actually a number of issues I’d like to suggest we explore over the next few sessions,” she said. “We’ve been talking about recent events here today, but at some point I’d like to hear a bit about your childhood—”

“Absolutely not,” I said, folding my arms and staring at the carpet. The lady does not need to know what goes on in this house.

“I understand that it can be a very difficult thing to talk about,” she said.

“I don’t want to talk about any of that, Maria. Please, do not ask me to talk about Mummy.”

Damn, damn, damn. She leaped on that, of course. Mummy’s always the star turn, the big draw.

“What sort of relationship do you have with your mother, Eleanor? Are you close?”

“Mummy’s in contact quite regularly. Too regularly,” I said. The cat was out of the bag now.

“You two don’t get on, then?” she said.

“It’s . . . complicated.” I noticed myself physically as well as metaphorically squirming in my seat.

“Can you tell me why?” Maria asked, bold as brass, nosy, intrusive. Shameless.

“No,” I said.

There was a very long pause.

“I know that it’s difficult, really difficult, to talk about painful things, but, as I said, that’s the best route to helping us move forward. Let’s start very slowly. Can you tell me why you don’t feel comfortable talking about your mother?”

“I . . . she wouldn’t want me to,” I said. That was true. I remembered the last—and only—time I’d done it, with a teacher. It wasn’t a mistake you made twice.

My left leg had begun to tremble; just a little quiver, but once it started, I couldn’t get it to stop. I threw my head back and made a noise, a sort of sigh mixed with a cough, to try to distract her eye from it.

“OK,” she said patiently. “If it’s all right with you, to finish up, I’d like to suggest that we try something a bit different. It’s called the empty-chair exercise,” she said. I folded my arms and stared at her.

“Basically, I’d like you to imagine that this chair here”—she indicated the lone upright dining chair—“is your mother.”

She anticipated my response.

“Now, I know this might feel silly, or embarrassing, but please, just try and go with it. No one’s judging you here. This is a safe space.” I twisted my hands together anxiously in my lap, mirroring the feeling in my stomach.

“Are you willing to give it a try?”

I stared at the door, willing myself out of it, willing the hands of the clock to tick round to the hour.

“Eleanor,” she said gently, “I’m here to help you, and you’re here to help yourself, aren’t you? I think you want to be happy. In fact, I know you do. Who doesn’t? We can work together in this room toward helping you achieve that. It’s not going to be easy, or quick, but I really think it could be worth it. What have you got to lose, after all? You’re going to be here for an hour either way. Why not give it a try?”

She had made a fair point, I supposed. I looked up and slowly unfolded my arms.

“Great!” she said. “Thank you, Eleanor. So . . . let’s imagine that this chair here is your mother. What do you want to tell her, right now? If you could say anything, right here, without being interrupted? Without fear of judgment? Come on, don’t worry. Anything you like . . .”

I turned to face the empty chair. My leg was still trembling. I cleared my throat. I was safe. She wasn’t really here, she wasn’t really listening. I thought back to that house, the cold, the damp smell, the wallpaper with the cornflowers and the brown carpet. I heard the cars passing by outside, all of them driving to nice places, safe places, while we were here, left all alone or—worse—left with her.

“Mummy . . . please,” I said. I could hear my voice outside of my own head, disembodied in the room, floating. It was high and very, very quiet. I breathed in.

“Please don’t hurt us.”





30





I don’t resort to foul language as a rule, but that first session with the counselor yesterday was bloody ridiculous. I started crying in front of Dr. Temple at the end of her stupid empty-chair exercise, and then she actually said, with faux gentleness, that our session had to draw to a close and that she’d see me next week at the same time. She basically hustled me out onto the street, and I found myself standing on the pavement, shoppers bustling past me, tears streaming down my face. How could she do it? How could one human being see another so obviously in pain, a pain she had deliberately drawn out and worried away at, and then push her out into the street and leave her to cope with it alone?

It was 11 a.m. I wasn’t supposed to be drinking, but I wiped away my tears, went into the nearest pub and ordered a large vodka. I silently raised a toast to absent friends and drank it down fast. I walked out before any of the daytime drinkers could begin an interaction with me. Then I went home and got into bed.



Raymond and I continued to meet for lunch in our usual café while I was off work. He would text me to suggest a time and date (the only texts I had received on my new mobile telephone so far). It turned out that if you saw the same person with some degree of regularity, then the conversation was immediately pleasant and comfortable—you could pick up where you left off, as it were, rather than having to start afresh each time.